Page 12 of Home to the Hollow

Okay, that was petty.

I’m not above being Petty Mayonnaise when the leader of the nasty rich kids from my high school nightmares shows up at my door at ten p.m. on a random Tuesday. His family is all about the Southern manners and genteel behavior, so where was my official notice of a visit? Must have gotten lost in the mail, right?

His infuriatingly handsome grin stretches, showing perfect pearly whites against his lush lips and dark stubble. A hand lifts to rake through his messy coal black hair, and I swear to seven levels of hell, it actually makes it look better. I watch him, keeping a bored look on my face as I study the expensive athletic gear, Supreme Chucks, and tanned skin he’s sporting. He’s clearly been keeping up his all-state, college QB physique over the years because every inch of him is on display in this get-up, and let’s just say my libido has taken notice.

“Aw, Tilly, are you still holding a grudge about that stupid coming out party? It’s been over a decade.”

My brows furrow as I grit my jaw, hoping my facial expression remains impassive. He’s right—my coming out cotillion was a Carrie-esque disaster of epic proportions, but there’s a laundry list of other things I could hold a grudge over spanning all twelve years we were in school together. From ruined birthdays to school events and trips, society occasions, and even graduation, their group was always there torturing someone. Even if it wasn’t me, I never condoned their behavior, and I won’t let him excuse it now.

“Edgar, it’s late. I’ve been working all day, and I’m relaxing before a week filled with similarly exhausting days unpacking. You can’t seriously think I want to stand on my porch in my pajamas rehashing the past with you.”

His eyes widen and he squints at me as if just noticing that he caught me unprepared to receive visitors. I immediately regret drawing attention to my appearance when he rakes his gaze from my toes up my bare legs to the tiny silk shorts with Monet's waterlilies on them.

His smirk deepens as he hits my bare stomach, eyeing the glittering belly ring and intricate tattoo work that wraps around my left side, and follows the path to the lacy bralette. I try not to squirm—I refuse to give him the satisfaction—as he finally hits my face. He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, but my reflexes trump his. I smack his surprisingly elegant hand away from my face with a scowl.

“Ooh!” he says, shaking his hand and pouting. “Feisty. I like it.”

With a narrowed gaze and a belly full of unresolved teenage rage, I crack my neck as I work to keep my legendary temper under control. “Edgar, I won’t ask you again. You have five seconds to explain why the cock-gobbling fuck you’re here or I’m slamming this door in your face.”

I don’t have to tell you which choice I’m hoping he makes. I’d love to crunch that perfect nose of his with my cherry wood door.

“Language, Tilly. It’s not befitting a lady of your stature.”

“Five… four…”

Raising his hands in surrender, the smoking hot asshole finally caves. “Okay, okay. Bobbi Jo had paperwork to send your way today, and like a true gentleman, I offered to deliver it in person.”

Jekyll snarls at him. I arch a brow, looking down at the servals, noting their puffy tails. “Oh, Edgar. My friends here say that’s a lie. Try again. Three… two…”

“Sweet baby Jesus, Tilly. Call off the little shits.” He reaches into his back pocket and procures a manila folder, creased by his choice of storage space. “I’m only shading the truth a smidge. I was at the diner after you left today—listening to the buzz as usual—and Bobbi Jo came in. She said she was going to run these out to you, and I asked her to allow me. I was curious about the whispers, I’ll admit.”

I sigh, resigning myself to at least another fifteen minutes of this shit. I might as well do the whole ‘guest in my home’ Southern schtick now. He actually has a purpose for being here, though I suspect the timing and the true motivation for his drop-in is not the folder. “Okay, Edgar. Have a seat on the veranda and I’ll look. I’m gonna go get a pen and my drink. Would you like a bourbon? I unpacked the bar yesterday.”

His eyes light up like I’ve offered a meth addict a fix. “Single barrel, sugar? Neat.”

Rolling my eyes into the back of my head, I turn on my heel and head into the house as he plants his gigantic frame in one of the two hand carved rocking chairs. My father made them before I graduated, and they’ve always been my favorites, so it’s odd that he would pick those over the swing, rattan couches, or lounges. I flick the lamps on the lowest setting so I can see what I’m doing, but not high enough to bother my sensitive night vision.

When I’m satisfied that he’s settled, I consider swapping my clothes to something less revealing. Hyde jumps up and places his paws on my ribs. The cats are almost as tall as I am when they stretch, and I wonder if they’re full grown before shaking my head.

Christ, I’m so easily distracted.

“I suppose that’s your way of telling me I look fine, buddy. I appreciate it. I didn’t have the easiest time when I was younger, and I worked like a goddamned pack mule to get where I am today. He brings out all the insecurities from the past, I guess.”

The cats tilt their heads at me, let out a resounding ‘mow’, and leap towards the kitchen. Even they think that’s silly.

I pull two Baccarat rocks glasses out of the cabinet, smiling when I remember the friend who gave me this set while I was working on reputation repair for a chef in Italy. Studying my selection of single barrels, I select Blanton’s, and pour three fingers in each glass. The training ingrained in my psyche immediately kicks in, and I find a tray to put the glasses on. I raid the fridge, making a small plate of cheese, fruit, and crackers, then add the bottle.

A Southern lady never makes her guests ask for anything, after all.

Putting the pen in my mouth, I lift the tray, balancing it like a pro, and make my way to the living room. I notice that Jekyll—the troublemaker—has grabbed the bag of meatballs in his mouth and is trotting along with a look of feline satisfaction. Hyde gives me a sheepish look, and I chuckle softly. I guess sets of twins are bound to have one good and one mischievous scamp—even in cats.

Edgar looks up as I pad onto the porch, his lips curling up. If he were as ugly on the outside as he is on the inside, this would be a lot fucking easier. He’s always looked like a stinking superhero come to life, and that only made the grip his crowd had on our school tighter. Boys wanted to be him, and girls wanted to hump him, so all the little nasty deeds he and his cohorts committed were swept under the rug as pranks.

The ‘Nip Tucks’—as the rest of the girls called the pack of rich witches who ruled over us like third world despots in Prada—weren’t much better. Their ‘pranks’ were vicious, and frequently escalated to injurious, but no one would acknowledge the damage they did.

My eyes fall on the folder on the table between the large chairs. I won’t be a chickenshit like the teachers were in my day. Even if I’m only there part time, I won’t allow whatever this generation’s bitchy crew does to go unpunished. I’m not looking for revenge, but I won’t turn a blind eye to kids’ suffering, either.

“Why, look at you, Tilly! Your mama would be right proud,” Edgar says, watching me carry my load without lifting a finger to help.

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